Monday, July 14, 2008

Even the evening meal I cannot get right. Its not spiced right or I don’t prepare it the way he thinks aught. Nothing is ever good enough.

Her hand automatically reached and passed along the salt.

Each grain he shook out representing her hopes.His hand crushing her spirit as he gripped the salt cruet.

He smashed the boiled potatoes and scooped a large dob of butter to mix into the mire.

Smashing her self confidence, muddling her energies, making her a mess unfocused and unable to solidify thoughts or actions...

“My shirts are still on the line. They’ll be too damp to iron now.”

Another failing I have. Forgetting to get the washing in will now mean a rush in the morning, more frustration as he is late for the bus and work, not to mention that the black clothes still hanging will fade in the strong sunlight in the morning.

She shivered not looking forward to the lecture on prolonging the life of clothes by hanging them inside out, and hoped he wouldn’t inspect the socks to discover that they were not pegged in pairs on the line as he decreed.

“Mum, Harry just poked meMum, Tilly was looking at me”. Came the whining across the table.

I can’t even control my kids. They are always fighting, always at each other. Never a moments peace. I must be the worst mother in the world. I never get the chance to do art and craft with them, play or build things anymore. I ‘m just so tired. No wonder I am so hopeless as a mother.

He glanced up and into her eyes. She looked away quickly.

“You kids will have to clean up your rooms after dinner the place is a constant pigstyle.”

Indignant retorts rose to her throat but was trapped by helplessness, blame and shame. She worked hard to keep things tidy, ensuring toys were away and surfaces were gleaming when she went to bed. It was never tidy enough, always comments and criticisms.

Silence as the meal was consumed.

They looked at each other for a moment and then looked away as quickly.

Let me into your head. What are you thinking? What occupies your mind? I have nothing to say, nothing to contribute. I might as well not be here. How has it come to this?

Pass me your hand. Let me touch you. Look at me. I’ll smash these potatoes instead of pounding the table. At least I can control how I eat my potatoes.

It was dark outside, but the luminous whiteness of his shirts reflected inwards. The dew would make it difficult to ensure the shirts would sit right even after ironing.Best to leave them out and grab them in the morning.

“My shirts are still on the line. They’ll be too damp to iron now.”

I’ll do it in the morning. A shirt looks best if crisply ironed and worn straight away anyway.

“Mum, Harry just poked meMum, Tilly was looking at me”. Came the whining across the table.

My brothers were always trying to get me in trouble too. I am going to have a handful with that one. Whats worse is I know what boys think and looking at the way Tilly was growing into a beautiful young lady, things are going to get sticky.I’ll need to squash them like I am squashing these vegetables.

He glanced up and into her eyes. She looked away quickly.

She looks tired. The kids should be helping out more. She’s a stranger to me. A ghost of what she used to be.

“You kids will have to clean up your rooms after dinner the place is a constant pigstyle.”

Look at me. Look at me the way we used to look at each other. Don’t be a stranger. I don’t know who you are any more.

Silence as the meal was consumed.

They looked at each other for a moment and then looked away as quickly

Let me into your head. What are you thinking? What occupies your mind? I have nothing to say, nothing to contribute. I might as well not be here. How has it come to this?

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Flash Fiction

This site is used to capture first drafts of Flash Fiction.

Any deemed worthy enough of a second glance will be pulled down to polish and hone to present to my editors and beta readers; and then perhaps submitted to competitions, anthology call outs or the like.

Your feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome.

My work is protected under the Creative Commons Licence. If you'd like to use it - just contact me.

Annie is author of “Reclaim” a survival guide for couples and conducts workshops with community groups along with speaking at key events on the subjects of reclaiming femininity, parenting and living the conscious, authentic life .

Annie draws on her early years growing up in the Australian Bush, her time as a classroom teacher and work in the corporate field to bring life experience to her eclectic style of workshops, writing and artwork. Having scribbled and sketched in the margins throughout school, university and in business meetings, she felt it time to bring her images and ideas to light.

She explores themes in mothering, feminism, spirituality and sharing her journey as a woman and mother in all her outlets of creativity.